The misfortune begins on social media.
Their tattoo parlor receives some negative clout. It's totally ridiculous too, something about a customer who got a racist tattoo that happened to also be a copy of someone else's design. Blah, blah, blah, blah.
It's a big affair that unravels a tangled yarn ball and before Beomseok knows it's he's hunched over his phone, doing some real keyboard warrior shit as he assaults his phone screen. He's about twenty messages in with a single brain cell organism and none of his ragings is getting through.
Beomseok's about to blow, face red and teeth grit. He readjusts himself on the tattoo bench and doesn't even react when he feels a presence approach.
"That's enough." A hand comes down on Beomseok's shoulder, red nails pull him out of his stupor.
For the first time in the past hour or so, Beomseok leans away from his phone and the world is unkind to his light-sensitive eyes.
He grimaces when he looks up, seeing Queenie's disapproving frown.
